Book X

Now is thrown wide the almighty house of heaven,
And lo! the Sire of gods and king of men
Summons a council to his starry court,
Whence from on high he doth all lands of earth,
The Dardan camp, and Latium’s folk behold.
Within the double-gated hall they sit:
Himself breaks silence: “Mighty sons of heaven,
Why is your purpose turned aback? or why
So strive with rancorous hearts? That Italy
With Troy should clash in onset I forbade;
What is this feud, defiant of my ban?
What terror hath seduced or these, or those,
To rush on battle, and provoke the sword?
War’s rightful hour — forestall it not — will come.
What time fierce Carthage on Rome’s heights shall hurl
Mighty destruction and the opened Alps:
Then hate for hate, then rapine shall have sway:
But now give o’er, and cheerfully confirm
The peace decreed.” Thus Jupiter in brief:
Not briefly golden Venus makes reply:

“O Sire, O sovereign power eterne of men
And all things — for what else is left us yet
To pray to? — dost thou mark how insolent
The Rutules? and how Turnus, chariot-borne.
Vaunts him in mid career, and speeds amain
Flushed with war’s triumph? Their close walls no more
Now shield the Teucrians: nay, within their gates,
E’en on the mounded ramparts, hand to hand
They grapple, and all the trench o’erflows with blood.
Aeneas is unaware, far off. Wilt thou
Ne’er yield us respite from the leaguer’s ring?
Over the walls of new-born Troy once more
A foe is hovering, and once more a host;
And from Aetolian Arpi, as of old,
Up-springs against the Teucrians Tydeus’ son.
My wounds, methinks, await me yet, and I,
Thine offspring, but delay some mortal spear.
If unapproved and all unwilled of thee
The Trojans have sought Italy, that sin
Let them atone, nor speed them with thine aid:
But, if obedient unto call on call
From Heaven and Hades, how can any now
Reverse thy bidding, and write fate anew?
Why call to mind the fleet on Eryx’ shore
Burnt up with fire? Why of the lord of storms
And his mad blasts roused from Aeolia, tell.
Or Iris sped from heaven? now too she stirs —
Tract unattempted yet — the Shades below;
And, on the upper world launch’d suddenly,
Allecto riots through the Italian towns.
Of empire naught I reck; that hope was ours
While Fortune stood: win whom thou wouldst have win.
If realm be none which thy relentless spouse
Can spare the Teucrians, by Troy’s overthrow
And smoking ruins, O Sire, I thee conjure.
Suffer me pluck Ascanius from the fray
Scathless; my grandson — suffer him to live.
Aeneas on unknown waters may be tossed.
And follow fortune, whatso path she point:
Let me this life avail to shield, and filch
From war’s dread peril. Amathus is mine.
Mine lofty Paphos and Cythera’s isle,
And fair Idalia’s home: there let him pass
His days unarmed, inglorious. With proud sway
Bid Carthage curb Ausonia; naught from thence
Shall balk the Tyrian cities. To have ’scaped
The plague of war what boots him, to have fled
Clean through the Argive fires, and drained so oft
Dangers of sea and desert, while Troy’s sons
Seek Latium’s shore and Pergamus re-risen?
Were it not better to have sat them down
Amid their land’s last ashes, and the soil
Where once was Troy? Ah! hapless, give them back
Xanthus and Simois; let the Teucrians, Sire,
Unroll afresh the tale of Ilium’s woe.”
Then royal Juno, by fierce frenzy spurred:

“Why my deep silence driv’st thou me to break.
And vent abroad in words a hidden pain?
Aeneas hath any man or god compelled
To fly to arms, and launch him as a foe
On king Latinus? At the call of fate
He sought the shores of Italy; so be it.
Urged by Cassandra’s raving; was it we
Bade him quit camp, trust to the winds his life.
To a boy’s guidance commit walls and war,
Stir treason in Etruria’s peaceful folk?
What god, what cruel tyranny of ours.
Impelled him to his bane? say, where in this
Was Juno’s hand, or Iris sent from heaven?
’Tis shame Italia’s sons should gird with fire
Your new-born Troy, and on his native soil
Turnus set foot, from old Pilumnus sprung,
Venilia for his mother, nymph divine:
What for the Trojans then with smoking brands
To fall on Latium, crush beneath the yoke.
Ravage and plunder, lands that knew them not.
Pick wives at will, tear bride from lover’s breast —
Hands craving peace, and vessels lined with war?
Thou canst Aeneas from Greek hands filch away.
Mist and void air present them for a man.
Into as many nymphs canst turn their fleet:
That we to Rutules too some aid should bring —
Counts it for crime? Aeneas is unaware.
Far off, thou sayest; far off and unaware
Let him remain. Paphos, Idalium,
Are thine, and tall Cythera: why provoke
Fierce bosoms, and a town that teems with war?
Think you ’tis I who labour to o’erthrow
The crumbling power of Phrygia? I, or he
Who on the hapless Trojans first drew down
The Achaean onslaught? Wherefore, say, to arms
Did Europe rise and Asia, with a rape
The cords of peace unravel? Did I lead
The adulterous Dardan to storm Sparta’s hold,
I find him weapons, or fan war with love?
Fears for thy children had become thee then:
Now, all belated, and with baseless plaints
Rising, thou flingest thy fierce taunts in vain.”
So pleaded Juno, and the assembled gods
Murmured approval with divided voice;
As rising blasts that, in the forest caught.
Murmur, and, rolling a dull roar along.
Bode storm to sailors. Then the almighty sire.
Prime potentate, brake silence; as he speaks,
Hushed is the gods’ high palace, and the earth
From her base trembles; the deep vault is still;
The winds are dropped; the sea smoothes flat his floor.

“Hear then, and graft within your heart, my words.
Ausonian, Teucrian, since no league may join.
Nor your own jars have end, howe’er to-day
Thrive either, cleave what path of hope he will,
Or Trojan, or Rutulian, shall by me
Be deemed alike indifferent, whether now
The destinies of Italy, or Troy’s
Own baneful error and ill counsel, hold
Her camp beleaguered: nor herefrom loose I
The Rutules. Each shall his own sowing reap —
Or toil or triumph: Jupiter is king
Alike for all. The fates will find a way.”
He spake, and by his Stygian brother’s stream.
Banks that with pitch and a black whirlpool boil.
Nodded assent, and with the nod made all
Olympus tremble. Here their parle had end.
Then Jupiter from off his golden throne
Rises, escorted to his palace-doors
By all the companies of heaven.
Meanwhile
At every gate the Rutules press around
To deal red death, and ring the walls with flame.
But fast within their palisades are penned
Aeneas’ leaguered host: no hope of flight.
Forlorn upon the lofty towers they stand
In vain, and with a scant ring crown the walls:
The first rank Asius, son of Imbrasus,
And Hicetaon’s son Thymoetes, then
The twain Assaraci, and Thymbris old
And Castor: brothers of Sarpedon both,
Clarus and Themon at their side are ranged
From lofty Lycia. Straining his full bulk,
Lyrnesian Acmon bears a monstrous rock.
No mean part of a mountain; lesser-thewed
He nor than Clytius, from whose loins he sprang.
Nor his own brother Mnestheus. Some with darts
Strive to ward off the foemen, some with stones,
Or hurl the fire-brand, or fit shaft to string.
Midmost the press, for Venus’ care most meet.
Behold! the Dardan boy, his comely head
Uncovered, glitters like a gem that cleaves
The red gold round it, to deck head or throat,
Or as gleams ivory, cunningly inlaid
In boxwood or Orician terebinth:
The milk-white neck his showery locks receives
Up-gathered in a ring of pliant gold.
Thee too, O Ismarus, the great-hearted folk
Saw aim the wound, and arm the reed with bane.
High-born of house Maeonian, where men till
Rich furrows by Pactolus washed with gold.
There too was Mnestheus, whom his late renown
In routing Turnus from the rampart’s height
Exalts to heaven, and Capys there, from whom
The great Campanian city draws her name.
These in the grip of stubborn war had closed:
Aeneas was cleaving now the midnight sea.
For, from Evander parted, and arrived
The Etruscan camp, soon as he meets the king.
And to the king relates his race and name,
Boon asked or offered, and reveals what arms
Mezentius wins to aid him, and therewith
The unbridled heart of Turnus — warning him
How mutable things human, and with pleas
Mingling entreaties — without more ado
Tarchon joins forces, and strikes treaty: then
Fate-free, the Lydian folk at heaven’s behest
Beneath an alien’s banner leap aboard.
The good ship of Aeneas leads the van,
The Phrygian lions yoked beneath her prow;
O’er them hangs Ida, a boon sight to see
For Teucrian exiles. Great Aeneas here
Sits and revolves in his own heart the while
War’s changeful issues; to his leftward side
Cleaves Pallas, and now asks him of the stars —
The road-way of dark night — anon of all
His jeopardies endured by land and sea.
Now open Helicon, ye goddesses,
And wake the strain, what hero-company,
Following Aeneas from the Etruscan strand.
Array the decks for war, and ride the deep.
First, in his brass-beaked Tiger, Massicus
Cleaves the sea-billows, beneath whom are ranged
A thousand warriors, from walled Clusium come.
And Cosae’s city; arrow-men are they.
Girt with light quiver and death-bearing bow.
With him grim Abas, his whole band aflame
With glorious arms, Apollo gilded bright
Upon the stern. Six hundred of her sons
Had Populonia lent him, proved in war.
But Ilva’s isle three hundred, whose rich womb
Teems with the Chalybes’ unexhausted mines.
Third, that interpreter ’twixt gods and men,
Asilas comes, obedient to whose will
Are victims’ entrails, and the stars of heaven,
And tongues of birds, and bodeful lightning-fires.
A thousand speeds he on in close array,
And with spears bristling, to his banner bid
By Pisa, city of Alphean birth.
On soil Etruscan. Follows in their wake
Thrice beauteous Astyr, Astyr on his steed
And gay-wrought arms relying; along with him —
All of one heart to follow — hundreds three
From Caere’s home, or who in Minio’s fields
And ancient Pyrgi dwell, and fever-fraught
Graviscae.
No, nor thee must I pass o’er,
Liguria’s bravest chieftain, Cinyras,
Or thee, Cupavo, with thy scanty train.
Springs from whose crest the plumage of a swan;
Love your reproach, for cognisance ye bear
Your father’s form. For Cycnus, as folk tell,
Bemoaning his loved Phaethon — what time
Amid those sisters’ shadowy poplar-leaves
He sings, with music solacing love’s woe —
Donned downy feathers for the snows of age,
Left earth behind, and starward soared in song.
The son, embarked with all his warlike peers,
Urges with oars the mighty Centaur on;
Who leans above the flood, and menaces
With monstrous rock the billows, towering high,
And furrows with long keel the watery deep.
Summons a war-host from his native shores
Great Ocnus too, from Manto, prophetess.
Sprung, and the Tuscan river, who to thee
Gave walls, O Mantua, and his mother’s name,
Mantua now rich in noble sires, but not
All of one stock; a threefold race are they,
Four several States in each; o’er all the States
Herself the head, her strength of Tuscan blood.
Hence too Mezentius arms to his own bane
Five hundred, whom the form of Mincius, crowned
With grey-green rushes, sire Benacus’ child,
Was seaward leading in their pine of war.
Aulestes labouring onward smites the flood
With hundred tree-stems rising to the stroke;
The sea-floor is up-churned, the waters foam.
Him monstrous Triton bears, and with his shell
Frights the blue billows; downward to the flank
His shaggy front shows human, as he swims;
Ends in a fish the belly; ’neath his waist
Half bestial the wave gurgles as it foams.
Such was the tale of chosen chiefs who came
In thrice ten vessels to the aid of Troy,
Cleaving with brass the fields of brine.
And now
Kind Phoebe, daylight from the sky withdrawn,
Smote mid- Olympus with night-wandering car:
Aeneas, for care denied his limbs repose.
Sole sitting, guides the helm and tends the sails;
When a fair band of once his way-fellows
See! meet him in mid course: the nymphs, whom kind
Cybebe bade have worship of the sea.
And turned to nymphs from vessels, toward him swam.
Cleaving the floods together, each and all
That had as brazen prows stood moored to shore.
Their king they know from far, with solemn dance
Surround him; but their skilfullest of speech,
Cymodocea, following in his wake.
Grasps with her right the stern, shoots shoulder-high.
And with her left hand oars the silent wave.
Then thus she accosts him, though he knew not her:

“Wakest thou, son of heaven, Aeneas? Wake
And slack the sail-sheets. Lo! thy fleet are we,
Pine-trees of Ida from his sacred crest.
Now ocean-nymphs. When us the Rutule false
With sword and fire urged headlong, we thy bonds
Unwilling snapped, and seek thee o’er the main.
The mighty Mother, pitying, this our form
Re-wrought, and gave us to be goddesses.
And under ocean all our days to spend.
But young Ascanius wall and trench confine
’Mid Latium’s darts and bristling front of war.
The Arcadian horse and stout Etruscan stand
E’en now together at the appointed spot.
With interposing host to block their path.
And bar from camp, is Turnus’ set resolve.
Up then! at earliest dawn bid rouse to arms
Thy friends, and take the shield, the lord of fire
Gave thee himself, of adamantine might,
And edged the rims with gold. To-morrow’s sun,
If vain my words thou deem not, shall descry
Vast heaps of Rutule slaughter.” She had said,
And with her right hand pushed the lofty stern
At parting, nowise witless of the way.
Swifter than javelin, or wind-winged shaft.
It skims along the waves; thereat the rest
Quicken their course. The Trojan prince himself.
Son of Anchises, stands amazed, yet takes
Heart from the omen; then, with eyes upturned
To the high vault of heaven, he briefly prays:

“Kind queen of Ida, mother of the gods.
Whom Dindymus, and cities turret-crowned.
And lions coupled to thy rein, delight,
Be thou my guide in battle, and this sign
Bring to fair issue, and with favouring foot
Attend the Phrygians, goddess.” There he ceased.
Meanwhile returning dawn sped round apace.
To broad day ripening, and had banished night:
First to his comrades he gives charge that all
Obey the signal, brace their hearts to war.
And fit them for the fray. And now he holds
The Teucrian host and his own camp in sight.
Upon the high poop standing: suddenly
On his left arm the blazing shield he rears.
The Dardans from the wall raise shouts to heaven;
Hope comes to heighten wrath; their darts they shower;
As cranes from Strymon under murky clouds
Give signal, and skim clamorously the air.
And scud before the south with trailing cry.
But to the Rutule prince right marvellous.
And to Ausonia’s captains, seemed the thing.
Till, looking back, the vessels’ stems they spy
Turned shoreward, the whole main one moving fleet.
Blazes his helm-top; from the crest above
Spouts fire; the gold boss belches floods of flame:
As on a clear night glows the baleful glare
Of blood-red comets, or as Sirius’ heat,
Fraught with disease and drought for suffering men,
Rises, and saddens heaven with light malign.
Yet bates not gallant Turnus his bold hope
To seize the shore and beat the invaders back.

“Here is the hap ye prayed for, sword in hand
To shatter them. The war-god’s very self
Is in the hands of heroes. Now let each
Of wife and home be mindful, now recall
The great deeds and the glories of your sires.
Up! let us meet them at the brink, while yet
Confused and tottering, as their feet touch land.
Fortune befriends the bold.” So saying, he mused
Inly whom best to lead against the foe.
Or to whose charge the leaguered walls confide.
Meanwhile, with gangways from each lofty stern
Aeneas unships his comrades. Many wait
The slack sea’s ebb, and hazard a bold leap
Into the shallows; some with aid of oars.
Tarchon espies a beach where shoals nor pant.
Nor roars the broken billow, but unchecked
Ocean glides onward with advancing tide —
Anon steers thither, and calls upon his men:

“Now, chosen crews, bend to your sturdy oars.
Lift and bear in the barks; cleave with their beaks
This hostile land, and let the keel’s sheer weight
Plough its own furrow. In such a roadstead I
Shrink not from shipwreck, once we clutch the shore.”
So Tarchon spake, and all his mates at once
Rise on their oar-blades, and to Latium’s plain
Bear in the foaming vessels, till their beaks
Now grip the dry, and every keel anon
Lies safely bedded; but not, Tarchon, thine;
For, dashed amid the shallows, while she hangs
Upon a treacherous ridge, long poised in doubt,
And wearies out the waves, she splits, and casts
Her crew among the billows; broken oars
And floating thwarts entangle them, their feet
The while dragged backward by the water’s ebb.
No laggard sloth checks Turnus; swift he hurls
His whole line at the Teucrians, on the beach
Halts, and confronts them. Then the trumpets sound.
First leapt Aeneas on the rustic ranks —
Fair augury of fight — and trampled down
The Latins, and slew Theron, mightiest-the wed.
Who dared assault Aeneas. The sword driv’n
Through links of brass, through tunic stiff with gold,
Drank of his gaping side. And next he strikes
Lichas, once ripped from his dead mother’s womb,
And sacred to thee, Phoebus, as a babe
Suffered to ’scape the perils of the steel.
And rugged Cisseus, and huge Gyas, too.
While levelling with their clubs the ranks hard by.
He smote to death; no whit might these bestead
The arms of Hercules, or their stout hands.
And sire Melampus, erst Alcides’ mate.
Long as earth yielded him his travails sore.
While Pharus, see! flings deedless words abroad,
The hero brandishes and plants a spear
Full in his bawling mouth. Thou, Cydon, too.
In luckless quest of Clytius, thy new joy.
The young down yellowing on his cheek, had’st lain
Stretched ’neath the Dardan’s hand, of youthful loves.
Thy lifelong care, forgetful — piteous sight,
Had not thy brethren, a close-banded throng.
Offspring of Phorcus, crossed the foeman’s path.
Their number seven, and seven the darts they fling:
From shield and helmet some bound idly back,
Some, by kind Venus turned aside, his limbs
Graze merely. Then Aeneas thus bespeaks
Trusty Achates: “Bring me store of darts;
None of all those shall my right hand for naught
Launch at the Rutules, which on Ilium’s plain
In Grecian flesh stood planted”. Therewithal
A mighty spear he grasps and hurls; it flew,
And shattering through the brass of Maeon’s shield.
Cleaves breast and breastplate. To his brother’s aid
Up comes Alcanor, props him, as he falls,
With right hand brotherly; but through his arm
The spear, sped onward, wins its bloody way,
And from his shoulder by the sinews, lo!
The hand hung dying. Then, from his brother’s corse
Snatching the weapon, Numitor assails
Aeneas, yet might not strike him full, and grazed
Tall-limbed Achates on the thigh. Thereat
Clausus of Cures, in his youthful frame
Trusting, drew near, and with a javelin-cast
Smote Dryops ’neath the chin, and, urging home
The tough shaft, pierced his throat, and in mid-speech
Reft life and voice; his forehead strikes the earth.
And from his lips he vomits out thick gore.
Three, too, from Thrace, of Boreas’ lofty line,
And three, by their sire Idas sent to war.
And Ismarus their country, he lays low
By divers deaths. Halaesus to the fray
Hastes with the bands Auruncan, and up-speeds
Messapus, child of Neptune, steed-renowned.
Now these, now those, strive to fling back the foe.
And on Ausonia’s very verge contend.
As in the vast of air when wrangling winds
Rise to do battle, matched in wrath and might.
None to the other yields, wind, cloud, or sea:
Long sways the combat: all stand locked in strife:
So Trojan ranks and Latin, each with each
Clash; foot to foot clings, and man crowds on man.
But yonder, where a torrent far and wide
Had sent rocks rolling and torn bush from bank,
When Pallas his Arcadians saw, unused
To foot encounter, fly the hot pursuit
Of Latium — for the rough ground counselled them
Their steeds to abandon — now with prayers, and now
With taunting words, sole refuge in his strait.
He fires their courage; “Whither fly ye, friends?
By your brave deeds, by Chief Evander’s name
And his triumphant wars — ay, by the hope
That springs in me to match my sire’s renown —
Trust not to flight. It is the sword must cleave
Through foes our passage. Where yon warrior-throng
Press thickest, your proud country calls you back,
Pallas to lead you. No gods bear us down;
Mortals by mortals are we driven, who yet
Boast lives and hands as many. Behold! the deep
With its vast bar confines us, and land fails
For flight: shall ocean be our aim, or Troy?”
So saying, he dashed amid the hostile press.
First meets him Lagus, led by fates malign.
Whom, tugging at a huge and ponderous stone.
With javelin hurled he pierces, where the spine
’Twixt ribs and ribs made severance, and plucks back
His weapon whence it clave amid the bones.
Yet Hisbo from above surprised him not.
Though surely hoping; for, as on he rushed.
Blinded with rage for his friend’s bitter fate,
Pallas forestalls him, in his swollen lung
Plunging the sword-blade. Next on Sthenius
He hurls him, and Anchemolus, derived
From Rhoetus’ ancient stem, who dared defile
His step-dame’s bridal chamber. And ye, too,
Twin sons of Daucus, on the Rutule plain
Fell, Thymber and Larides, wearing both
One likeness, e’en to their own parents’ eyes
A sweet insoluble perplexity.
But bitter difference now hath Pallas wrought
Betwixt ye; for thy head the Evandrian sword
Hath shorn, O Thymber, and thy lopp’d right hand
Gropes for its lord, Larides, and half-quick
The fingers quiver, and clutch the sword anew.
Fired by the hero’s chiding, and at sight
Of his resplendent deeds, ’twixt rage and shame
The Arcadians steel their hearts to face the foe.
Then Pallas pierces Rhoeteus as he sped
Past in his chariot. Respite and delay
Thus much gat Ilus: for at Ilus he
Had aimed a doughty javelin from afar;
But Rhoeteus, intercepting it midway.
From thee, right noble Teuthras, as he fled.
And from thy brother Tyres, rolled from car.
Hammers with dying heel the Rutule plain.
As, at his wish, when summer winds have risen,
Some shepherd fires the forest here and there;
All in a moment the mid spaces catch.
And o’er the wide plains in unbroken line
Sweeps the grim-flickering edge of Vulcan’s war —
He, perched triumphant, marks the revelling flame —
So all thy comrades wax in valour one,
And glad thee, Pallas. But to meet them moves
Halaesus, brave in onset, the whole man
Behind his shield up-gathered, and hews down
Ladon and Pheres and Demodocus;
Strymonius’ right hand, raised against his throat.
With flashing blade he shears, then smites with a rock
The face of Thoas, and batters in the bones.
Blood mixed with brain. Halaesus in the woods
Had by his prophet-sire been hid; when now
The old man’s eyes failed and were glazed in death,
Fates claim their own, and to Evander’s darts
Devote the son. At him now Pallas aimed,
First praying thus: “O father Tiber, grant
Now to this weapon, which I poise for fight,
A prosperous way through stout Halaesus’ heart;
So shall thine oak his arms and spoils possess.”
This heard the god; Halaesus, while he shields
Imaon, to the Arcadian dart lays bare
His luckless breast. But Lausus, of the fight
Main champion, brooks not that his ranks be scared
By all the hero’s slaughter: at their head
Encountering he slays Abas, a tough knot
And barrier of the battle. Then goes down
Arcadia’s manhood, down the Etruscans go.
And ye, whose frames defied the slaughtering Greeks,
O Teucrians. Matched in leaders, as in might,
Host rushes upon host. The rearward ranks
Close up and crowd the battle, hand and spear
Wedged beyond wielding. Here is Pallas, see.
Pressing and straining, there, confronting him,
Lausus, in age his equal, both alike
Peerless in beauty, but by fortune’s ban
Doomed to no home-return. Yet were they not
Suffered by great Olympus’ lord to close
In conflict; each beneath a mightier foe
Waits his impending destiny.
Meanwhile
His gracious sister now bids Turnus bring
Relief to Lausus; and on flying car
He cleaves the ranks between them. When his friends
He spied, “Ho now! cease fighting; I alone
Go to meet Pallas! Pallas is my due.
Mine only: fain were I his sire himself
Stood here to see”. So spake he, and his friends
Withdrew them from the space proclaimed. But when
The Rutules had made room, the noble youth,
Much marvelling at the haughty mandate, stares
Amazed at Turnus, over the vast frame
Lets roll his eyes, and with fierce glance afar
Scans him at every point, then, speech for speech.
Makes answer to the monarch: “Now shall I
Be praised as winner of the splendid spoils,
Or for a famous death; and either fate
My sire can face. Away with threats.” So saying.
He strides into the arena’s midst. About
The Arcadians’ heart-strings the blood curdles cold.
Turnus has leapt from chariot, and on foot
Prepares for close encounter. As a lion.
That from his lofty outlook hath espied
A bull far off, erect upon the plain
Brooding on battle, flies upon the prey.
E’en such the look of Turnus as he came.
But Pallas, when he deemed the foe would be
Now within spear-cast, hastens to begin.
So some kind hap might help the bold essay
Of ill-matched powers: then thus to the great heaven
He cries: “By my sire’s welcome, and the board
Whereto thou cam’st a stranger, I thee pray,
Alcides, aid me in my vast emprise.
Let him behold me from his limbs yet quick
Strip off the blood-stained arms, and Turnus’ eyes.
Dying, endure a conqueror.” The youth’s prayer
Alcides heard, and, stifling a deep groan
Within his heart, shed unavailing tears.
Then with kind words the Sire bespake his son:

“Each hath his term appointed; brief the span
Of all men’s life, and irretrievable;
But by great feats to lengthen fame, here lies
The task of valour. ’Neath Troy’s lofty walls
Fell many a god-begotten; nay, therewith
Perished Sarpedon, mine own offspring. Ay,
And Turnus his fates summon, now arrived
The goal of age allotted.” Thus he spake,
And from the Rutule plain his eyes withdrew.
But Pallas launches with main strength a spear,
And plucks from hollow sheath his flashing sword.
On flew the shaft, and, where the shoulder-plates
Rose to their highest, lit, and forced its way
Through the shield’s edges, and glanced off at length
E’en from the mighty frame of Turnus. Then
Turnus, long poising a steel-pointed spear.
Hurls it at Pallas, crying, “Look you now
Whether my dart pierce deeper”. He had said,
But crashing through the centre of the shield —
Iron upon iron welded, brass on brass.
Wound all about with bull’s hide manifold —
With quivering impact the point tore, and pierced
The corslet’s barrier and the mighty breast.
He plucks the warm dart from the wound in vain;
Outburst one way the life-blood and the life;
Prone on the wound he sinks, and over him
Loud clanged his armour, as the dying lips.
Blood-dabbled, smote upon the foeman’s soil.
Then, standing o’er him, Turnus spake and said:

“Arcadians, heed, and to Evander’s ear
Bear this my message: say that, in such plight
As he hath earned him, I send Pallas home.
What grace a grave, what solace burial hath.
Freely I grant. Right dearly will he rue
His welcome of Aeneas.” Thus he spake,
And with his left foot pressed the lifeless corse.
Seizing the belt’s vast burden, with the crime
Engraved there — in one nuptial night a band
Of youths slain foully, and the bride-bower drenched
In blood; which Clonus, son of Eurytus,
Had traced upon thick gold: but of the prize
Turnus now boasts him, glorying in the spoil.
Ah! mind of man, to fate and coming doom
Blind, and that knows no bridle, when elate
With prosperous fortune! there shall come a time
When Turnus fain at a great price would buy
Pallas back scathless, and will yon proud spoils
Loathe, and the day he won them. But his friends
With many a groan and tear throng round and set
Pallas on shield, and bear him from the fray.
O grief and mighty glory to thy sire
Anon returning! This one day begins
And ends alike thy warfare; none the less
Huge heaps of Rutule dead thou leav’st behind.
Now no mere rumour of so dear a loss,
But weightier witness to Aeneas hies;
His friends but a bare span from death, ’tis time
Troy’s routed ranks to succour. With the sword
He reaps what’s nearest, and through serried foes.
Like fire, a wide path hews him, thee to seek,
Turnus, exulting in new deeds of blood.
Pallas, Evander — on his very eyes
Flashed the whole scene, the board whereto he came
Then first, a stranger, and the pledged right hands.
Four warriors hereupon from Sulmo sprung.
As many reared by Ufens, he takes quick,
To slay as offerings to the shade, and drench
The blazing funeral-pyre with captive blood.
Next from afar at Magus he had aimed
A deadly spear. But he comes crouching up
Slily, while o’er him the shaft quivering flew,
Then clasped the hero’s knees, and suppliant spake:

“By thy sire’s soul, I pray thee, by thy hopes
Ripening with young Iulus, spare my life
For son and sire. A stately house have I,
Where talent-weights of silver fair-embossed
Lie buried deep, and massy gold is mine,
Wrought and unwrought. Nor hinges hereupon
The Teucrians’ triumph, nor one life alone
Can work so vast a difference.” He had said.
To whom Aeneas thus spake in answer: “All
Thy boasted store of silver and of gold
Save for thy sons. Such trafficking in arms
Turnus fore-cancelled in that hour when he
Smote Pallas dead. So deems among the Shades
My sire Anchises, and Iulus so.”
He spake, and with his left hand grasped the helm,
And bending the neck backward, as he prayed,
Plunged in his sword-blade to the hilt. Hard by
The son of Haemon, priest of Phoebus, stood.
And Trivia, chapleted about the brow
With sacred fillet-bands, from head to heel
One splendour of white raiment, glittering arms.
Him then he meets, and drives adown the plain.
Stands o’er him slipp’d and fallen, and slaughters him,
And in vast darkness whelms. The warrior’s arms.
Up-gathered, Serestus shoulders and bears off.
Trophy to thee, Gradivus, lord of war.
Now Caeculus, from the stock of Vulcan sprung.
And Umbro who from Marsian mountains came.
Repair the battle-ranks. Against them storms
The Dardan. With the sword he had lopped off
Anxur’s left arm, and, with the arm, his shield’s
Whole circle; the man had uttered some big boast.
And thought with deed to match it, and belike
Was e’en exalting his proud soul to heaven
With promise of hoar eld and length of days;
When, in bright arms exulting, Tarquitus,
Whom Dryope the nymph erewhile had borne
To woodland Faunus, crossed his fiery path.
He, drawing back his spear, pins fast in one
The corslet and huge burden of his shield;
Then, as he vainly prays, with many a word
Still ripe for utterance, hurled to earth his head,
And, rolling in the dust the yet warm trunk,
In bitter mood spake o’er it: “Now lie there.
Redoubted warrior! no kind mother’s hand
In earth shall hide thee, or heap above thy limbs
A father’s tomb: but to the ravenous birds
Shalt thou be left, or gulf shall drown and wave
Bear thee, and hungry fishes lip thy wounds.”
Antaeus next and Lucas, foremost ranks
Of Turnus, he o’ertakes, and Numa brave.
And tawny Camers, noble Volscens’ son.
Richest in land of all Ausonia’s folk.
Who ruled in hushed Amyclae. Even as when
Aegeon, fabled of a hundred arms,
A hundred hands, and from whose fifty mouths
And breasts blazed fire, against the bolts of Jove
Clashed on like shields as many, as many swords
Drew; so Aeneas over the wild plain
Rages his fill victoriously, when once
His blade waxed warm. Nay see! he moves to meet
Niphaeus’ four-horse team and threatening front.
Soon as they saw him striding with huge steps.
And fiercely muttering, the steeds wheeled for fear.
Rushed backward, and flung forth their lord, and whirled
The chariot shore-ward. Lucagus meanwhile
With twain white war-steeds dashed amid the throng.
He and his brother Liger; Liger reins
And guides the horses; Lucagus waves fierce
His circling sword-blade. Their so fiery rage
Aeneas brooked not, but upon them rushed,
Towering conspicuous with opposing spear.
To whom spake Liger: “Here dost thou behold
Nor Diomede’s coursers, nor Achilles’ car,
Nor Phrygia’s plain: the last of war and life
Now on this soil awaits thee”. Such wild words
Fly from mad Liger’s lips. But not in words
Troy’s hero shapes his answer; at the foe
A dart he launches; and when Lucagus
Low-leaning, as to smite them, with the steel
His team had chidden, and now, left foot advanced.
Plants him for battle, through the nether rims
Of his bright buckler entering, the spear pierced
His groin to leftward: tumbled from the car
Dying, he rolls upon the plain. To whom
In bitter accents good Aeneas spake:

“Thy chariot, Lucagus, no coward flight
Of steeds betrayed, nor foe-flung shadows vain
Turned backward; leaping from the wheels, thyself
The car forsak’st”. So saying, he caught the team.
Down from the chariot, stretching helpless hands.
Slid too the unhappy brother: “By thyself,
And by the twain who framed thee that thou art.
Great Trojan, leave me life, and to my plaint
Lend pitying ear”. Yet more he would have prayed,
When thus Aeneas: “Not such the words erewhile
Thou uttered’st. Die, nor brother be divorced
From brother.” Thereat with the sword’s point his breast
He cleaves, and lets the life-breath from its lair.
Thus through the plain the Dardan chief dealt death.
Raging like torrent-wave or black typhoon.
At length the young Ascanius and his host
Break forth, quit camp, and foil the leaguer’s ring.
Meanwhile to Juno thus high Jove begins:

“O sister mine and sweetest wife in one,
’Tis Venus, as thou deemed’st — nor errs aught
Thy judgment — who upholds the power of Troy,
Not warrior’s right hand, throbbing for the fray.
Nor fiery soul that can all danger dare.”
Quoth Juno meekly; “Wherefore, fairest lord,
Vex a sick heart, of thy stern words afear’d?
Had but my love that power it boasted once.
And still should boast, I had not asked in vain
Of thine omnipotence to grant me this —
Leave to filch Turnus from the fight, and keep
Unscathed for Daunus, for his sire. But now
E’en let him perish, and with that loyal blood
Pay forfeit to the Teucrians. He nathless
Draws from the stock of heaven his name, and springs
Fourth from Pilumnus; and his lavish hand
Hath oft thy threshold heaped with bounteous gifts.”
Briefly to her spake high Olympus’ lord:

“If but from present death reprieve be asked.
And respite for the warrior, ere he fall.
And thou perceiv’st I rule it so, bear hence
Away, pluck Turnus from the impending fate;
Such scope is mine to pleasure thee. But if
There lurk beneath thy prayer some ampler boon.
Or deemest that the war’s whole course may shift
And suffer change, thou feed’st an empty hope.”
And Juno answered weeping: “What and if
Thy heart vouchsafed me what thy lips deny.
And pledged this loan of Turnus’ life to last?
Now, some dread end awaits him innocent,
Or I drift void of truth. Yet O to be
By false fear cheated, and that thou, who canst,
Wouldst bend thy course to better! “Having said,
Forthwith she darted from the welkin’s height,
And trailing storm through heaven, and girt in cloud.
Sought Ilium’s army and Laurentum’s camp.
Then out of hollow mist the goddess shapes
A shade, thin, void of strength, in semblance like
Aeneas — a. monstrous marvel to behold —
Decks it with Dardan gear, and counterfeits
The shield, the horse-plume of the godlike head,
Gives unreal words, gives sound devoid of soul,
And mocks the very motions of his stride;
Like phantoms that, folk say, flit after death.
Or visions that befool the slumbering sense.
Now in the van of battle stalks the shade
Exulting, with its weapons goads the foe.
With shouts defies him. Turnus rushes on’t.
And hurls from far a hissing spear; the shape
Wheels and retires. But Turnus, when he deemed
Aeneas fled back, and with bewildered soul
Drank the delusive hope, cries “Whither fly’st,
Aeneas? Quit not thy plighted bridal-bower:
The soil, thou hast crossed the waterways to find.
This hand shall yield thee.” With such clamorous shouts
He follows, and brandishes his naked blade.
Nor marks the light winds bear his boast away.
Fast by a tall rock’s base there chanced to stand
A vessel with steps set and gangway geared.
Which King Osinius bare from Clusium’s coast.
Hither the mock Aeneas hurrying fled.
And plunged for shelter; nor at slacker speed
Turnus pursues, treads all that stays him down.
Clears the high bridge, and scarce had touched the prow,
Ere Saturn’s daughter rends the rope, and speeds
O’er back-rolled billows the shore-sundered ship.
Aeneas meanwhile defies a vanished foe.
And many a warrior-frame that crossed his path
Sends death-ward. For no further shelter then
Seeks the light phantom, but took wing aloft.
And with a dark cloud mingled: the rough blast
Meanwhile bears Turnus through the billows’ midst.
Blind to the cause, unthankful for escape,
Backward he gazes, and lifts high his voice
With hands up-clasped to heaven: “Almighty Sire,
Hast deemed me worthy of reproach so deep.
To pay such forfeit doomed me? Whither bound?
Whence came I hither? What flight, and in such guise,
Wafts me from shore? Shall I again behold
Laurentum’s camp and bulwarks? What of those
Brave hearts, the followers of my sword and me?
Whom one and all — ah! horror! — I have left
To nameless butchery, yea, can see them now
Rank-scattered, and hear groaning as they fall?
What must I do? What land now deep enough
Can gape to hide me? Rather do ye winds
Take pity, and drive the ship on reef, on rock —
I, Turnus, from my heart implore — or cast
On cruel quicksands, where no Rutule foot,
Nor rumour that knows all, may track me out.”
So saying, his soul rocks this way, and rocks that.
Whether upon his sword, so deep the shame.
Madly to hurl him, and ’twixt rib and rib
Drive the stern blade, or plunge amid the seas.
So swimming gain the curved beach, and fall
Once more upon the Teucrians. Either way
Thrice he essayed; thrice, pitiful of heart.
Great Juno checked and held him. The ship skims
Cleaving the deep, and, sped by tide and wave.
To his sire Daunus’ ancient town is borne.
Fiery Mezentius now by Jove’s behest
Takes up the battle, and falls upon Troy’s host
Amidst their triumph. The Etruscan ranks
Rally together, and on him alone.
Alone on him, with gathered fury press,
And showering missiles. Even as a rock.
That juts far out into the mighty main.
Bare to wind’s brunt, a target for the sea,
All stress, all menace both of sky and deep
Outfaces, fixed abiding; so to earth
He strikes down Hebrus Dolichaon’s son.
And Latagus, and Palmus as he fled;
But Latagus full in face and mouth surprised
With a huge fragment of hill-rock he smote;
Hamstrung and helpless he let Palmus sprawl,
And gave the arms to Lausus, on his back
To wear them, in his helm to fix the crest:
Phrygian Euanthes too, and Mimas, whom,
Once friend of Paris and his peer in age,
Theano bare to Amycus his sire.
The selfsame night that Cisseus’ royal child
Teemed with a firebrand, and gave Paris birth.
Paris within his father’s city lies,
Mimas, unknown, Laurentum’s coast doth keep.
Lo! as a mighty boar, by sharp-toothed hounds
Driven from the mountain heights, which many a year
Pine-fruitful Vesulus hath sheltering held,
Many Laurentum’s marsh-land, pastured fair
Within her reedy jungle, he, once come
Amid the meshes, halts with angry grunt.
And bristles up his shoulders; none durst rage
Against him, or draw nearer; at safe range
With darts and shouts they harass him from far;
He, dauntless, slowly to this side and that
Turns with teeth gnashing, and shakes off the spears:
So, of all those who burned with righteous wrath
Against Mezentius, none durst draw the sword
And close in onset, but with deafening shouts
And far-sped shafts assail him. There had come
From the ancient bounds of Corythus a Greek,
Acron, who, leaving half-done marriage rites,
Had fled away; him seeing from afar
Amid the ranks deal havoc, gay with plumes,
And in the purple of his plighted bride —
As oft-times, ranging the deep forest-lairs,
An unfed lion, by mad hunger urged.
If haply he hath spied a fleet-foot goat,
Or towering-antlered stag, exults and opes
His monstrous jaws, uprears his mane, and hangs
Over the rent flesh, couching; the foul gore
Drenches his cruel mouth — so eagerly
Upon the foemen’s mass Mezentius leaps.
Down goes the hapless Acron, with his heels
Hammers the dark earth, dying, and stains red
The splintered spear-shaft. He too deigned not smite
Orodes flying, nor deal him a blind blow
With javelin-cast, but meets him face to face.
And man to man encounters, by no stealth
Filching the vantage, but sheer force of arms.
Then, on the prostrate foe with foot and spear
Pressing, he spake: “Here tall Orodes lies.
My men, no paltry portion of the war.”
His comrades after him glad paean raise.
With ebbing breath the other: “Whoe’er thou art.
Not unavenged I fall, nor long shalt thou
Enjoy thy victory; for thee, too, like fates
Are watching; the same fields thou soon shalt press.”
To whom Mezentius, with wrath-mingled smile:

“Now die; the sire of gods and king of men
Shall look to me”. So saying, he drew the spear
From out the hero’s body; stern repose
And iron slumber on his eyelids press.
And their orbs close in everlasting night.
Caedicus then cuts down Alcathous;
Sacrator slays Hydaspes; Rapo’s sword
Falls on Parthenius and the knotty strength
Of Orses; Clonius by Messapus dies
With Lycaonian Ericetes, one
Stretched prone by stumbling of his reinless steed,
One foot to foot confronting him. Forth stood
Agis the Lycian too, whom Valerus
Nathless, naught lacking of ancestral worth,
Smote to the dust; then Thronius by the hand
Of Salius; Salius by Nealces falls,
For javelin and far-stealing arrow famed.
Fell Mavors now was meting forth to each
Like dole and mutual death; both equally
Victors, both vanquished, slew and fell, nor thought
Of flight had either. In Jove’s hall the gods
Of these and those the fruitless rage lament.
And that poor mortals should such toils endure.
Venus on one side gazes, and on one
Saturnian Juno. Pale Tisiphone
Raves on amid their thousands on the plain.
But now Mezentius, shaking his huge spear.
Into the field strides stormily; and lo!
Vast as Orion when he cleaves a path,
Wading through middle Nereus’ mightiest pools,
And with his shoulder tops the waves, or when.
Bearing an aged ash from mountain-height.
He stalks on earth, and hides his head in cloud —
So strode Mezentius onward, vast in arms,
Aeneas adown the line of battle spies.
And moves to meet him. He his noble foe
Dauntless abides, and plants his ponderous bulk;
Then, measuring with his eyes a spear-throw’s space:

“Now let my right hand’s godhead and the dart
I poise for flight bestead me! Here I vow
To make thee, Lausus, thee, a living man.
Arrayed in spoils torn from the robber’s corse.
My trophy of Aeneas.” He had said.
And hurled from hand a hissing spear; it flew,
And glanced from off the shield, and pierced afar
Noble Antores betwixt side and loin —
Antores, friend of Hercules, who, sent
From Argos, to Evander clave, and found
Beneath Italian walls a home. But ah!
Smit by another’s wound he lies, and looks
On heaven, and, dying, of his dear Argos dreams.
Then good Aeneas hurls a spear; it sped
Right through the hollow disc of threefold brass.
Through layers of linen, and the inwoven work
Of triple bull’s hide, and lodged low i’ the groin.
But pushed not home its passage. Swiftly then
Aeneas drew sword, rejoicing to behold
The Tuscan’s blood, forth plucks it from his thigh,
And hotly presses on the staggering foe.
Lausus for love of his dear sire groaned deep
At sight of it, and tears rolled o’er his face.
Nor here thy piteous doom, thy matchless deeds.
If length of time e’er make believable
Such exploit, nor thyself, brave youth, right meet
To be remembered, will I leave unsung.
He, thus defenceless and sore hampered, now
Was back retiring, trailing from his shield
The foeman’s dart; forth leapt the youth, and thrust
Betwixt their points, and, as Aeneas’ right hand
Now rose to strike, ran in beneath his sword.
And, hindering, stayed the striker. Loud his folk
Cheer him, and follow with their eyes, until
The sire, son-shielded, might win safe retreat.
And hurl their javelins, and bear back the foe
With darts from far. Aeneas storms with rage.
And keeps shield-covered. As, when with boisterous hail
The clouds fall headlong, plough-folk, every one,
And country hinds fly scattered from the fields.
And cowers the wayfarer in some safe hold.
Or river-bank, or high o’er-arching rock,
While rain still pelts the earth, that they may task
The daylight with returning sunshine: so
Aeneas, o’erwhelmed with countless darts, endures
The war-cloud, till it growl itself away,
Still chiding Lausus, threatening Lausus: “Why
Rush upon death, and overdare thy strength?
Love fools thee into rashness.” Not the less
Madly he riots, till in the Dardan chief
Fierce wrath rose headier, and the sister-Fates
Lausus’ last threads up-gather; for now drives
Aeneas his strong sword through the stripling’s frame
Till the whole blade is buried. His light shield.
Frail arms for one so threatening, the point pierced,
And pierced the tunic which of pliant gold
His mother wove him, and blood filled his breast;
Then life, regretful, on its airy way
Fled to the Shades, and left the body lone.
But when he saw the dying look and face.
The face so wondrous pale, Anchises’ son
Uttered a deep groan, pitying him, and stretched
His right hand forth, as in his soul there rose
The likeness of the love he bore his sire.

“Poor boy! what guerdon for thy glorious deeds —
Say what, to match that mighty heart of thine.
Shall good Aeneas yield thee? Those thine arms.
Wherein thou gloried’st, keep them; and thyself.
If such a care may touch thee, to the Shades
And ashes of thy fathers I restore.
Unhappy! yet for thy sad end some balm
Be this: by great Aeneas thou art slain.”
Then hails he his attendants, chiding them
For loiterers, and uplifts their lord from earth,
Where he lay dabbling his trim locks with blood.
Meanwhile the sire by Tiber’s stream now staunched
His wounds with water, and for ease lay propped
Against a tree-trunk. On the boughs apart
Hangs the brass helmet, and his ponderous arms
Rest on the meadow-sward. About him stand
His flower of war; he panting and in pain
Foments his neck, and lets the flowing beard
O’erspread his bosom, many a time inquires
Of Lausus, and oft sends to call him back.
And bear the lad his sorrowing sire’s command.
But Lausus, laid on shield, a lifeless corse,
His friends in tears were bearing — mighty soul
Quelled by a mighty wound. The father’s heart.
Ill-boding, recognised their wail afar.
With showers of dust his hoary locks he soils,
And spreads both hands to heaven, and clasps his arms
About the corse. “Did then such joy of life
Possess me, O my son, that in my stead
I suffered thee, even thee whom I begat,
To meet the foeman’s stroke? Am I, thy sire.
Saved through thy wounds, and living by thy death?
Ah! to my sorrow now at last I know
What exile is! now is the wound pushed home.
Yea, and I too with infamy, my son.
Thy name have spotted, by men’s hate of me
Thrust from the throne and sceptre of my sires!
To mine own country and my people s spite
I should have paid the forfeit, by all deaths
Freely have yielded up this guilty life.
Now I live on, from men and light of day
Not yet departing; but depart I will.”
So saying, at once upon his wounded thigh
He raised him, and, albeit from the deep wound
His force flagged somewhat, with no downcast air
Called for his war-steed. This was aye his pride,
And this his solace; hereon he was wont
From all his wars to ride victorious home.
The sorrowing creature now he thus bespeaks:

“We have lived long, O Rhaebus, if aught long
Pertain to mortals. Or to-day shalt thou
Bear back in triumph the bloody spoils and head
Of yon Aeneas, and be of Lausus’ pangs
My co-avenger, or, if all force fail
Our path to open, shalt beside me lie:
No, nor wilt thou, methinks, my bravest, deign
Brook stranger’s bidding, or a Teucrian lord.”
He said, and, mounted on his willing back,
As ever wont, bestrode him, and both hands
Charged with keen javelins, his head bright with brass.
Shaggy with horse-hair plume. So galloping
He dashed amidst them. In one single heart
Upsurges a vast tide of shame and grief
With fury mingled; and thrice o’er he called
With mighty voice “Aeneas! “Well, I trow,
Aeneas knew it, and prayed a jubilant prayer:

“May the great Sire of gods so bring to pass.
So lord Apollo! fall on, begin the fray!”
Thus much he spake, and with his threatening spear
Moved on to meet him. But the other cried:

“Reft of my son, why thinkest thou, fierce man.
To fright me now? sole way was this whereby
To work my ruin. I shudder not at death.
No, nor spare any of thy gods. Now cease;
I come to die, but bring thee first these gifts.”
He spake, and hurled a dart against the foe.
Then yet another and another plants.
In a wide circle wheeling; but the boss
Of gold bides all. Thrice round the watchful foe
Rode he in rings to leftward, from his hand
Launching the javelins; thrice the Trojan prince
Bears round with him upon his brazen targe
A dense spear-forest. Then wearying to prolong
Delays so many, so many darts to pluck,
And by the unequal conflict sore bestead.
Much inly pondering, forth at last he springs.
And in betwixt the war-steed’s hollow brows
Hurls his spear mightily. The beast reared up.
Lashed with his hooves the air, his rider flung.
Then, following him, head downward, pinned to earth
And with his shoulder pressed the fallen man.
Trojan and Latin shouts set heaven ablaze.
Up speeds Aeneas, and plucks sword from sheath.
Then o’er him: “Where is bold Mezentius now.
And all his heart’s wild violence? “Unto whom
The Etruscan, as up-glancing he drew in
A draught of heaven, and to himself returned:

“Why, bitter foe, dost taunt and threaten death?
In slaying is no sin; nor with such thought
Came I to battle, nor did my Lausus so
Pledge terms betwixt us. This alone I crave.
By whatso grace to fallen foes may be:
Let earth my body hide. Girt round am I
With bitter hate of my own folk, I wot.
Fend me from this their rage, and with my son
Grant fellowship in burial.” So he spake,
Welcomed the sword to his expectant throat.
And o’er his arms let pour life’s ruddy tide.